CDVS: Leonard Cohen VS. Pink Floyd

Leonard Cohen just turned 70, and his latest release is pregnant with a wrapping-things-up feel that may or may not actually herald the end of an unbearably charming career. If so, it will have all the right elements of a classy exit. Dear Heather is all things wistful, and yet doesn't for a moment forget to keep breathing a great, hot sigh down your neck. From a very sexy retrospective of the women "who become naked in their different ways" ("Because Of"), to a very sexy spoken-word session ("Villanelle for Our Time"), Cohen stays the silver-backed gorilla you can't resist. It's what he does. He's a dark star of romantically densest composition, and your only job is to give up your soul to his inescapable gravity.

More than likely, though, despite the sweet surrender, you'll eventually shake horribly all over from Cohen's tongue in your ear. It's involuntary. You'll crave delivery from such deft coercion--someone who'll back up a couple of feet and respect you, give you some damned space while essentially staying in character; you need a soft landing without lingering trauma. But who? Tom Waits? No--too eccentric, too many steps back--you might as well put in Weird Al. Nick Cave? Heh! Boo! Not quite.

Laugh if you will at the counterintuition, but good rescue is where you find it. Try Pink Floyd's The Final Cut for a semi-dignified apology. Like Dear Heather, Floyd's 1981 mess of a swan song (let's please pretend it was their swan song) keeps the spirit of Cohen's remembrance of things past. Like Cohen, Roger Waters will cozy up all low and guttural, occasionally sport a tasteful wryness, make acquaintance with piano, saxophone and even gospel backups ("Not Now John") that can tax your trust. The Final Cut is more politico-existential struggle than come-on, but that's beside the point made by tracks like "One of the Few" and "Paranoid Eyes," which show that Waters will crawl up in your ear to die just as invasively as Cohen. But then comes that apology, as Waters resurrects to spring crazily away and belt heavily reverbed, choked tantrums--mere projections of his own self-reproach at getting so close. It's an awkward thing to witness, but after 45 minutes of Cohen's sonic lechery, it may be just what you need to keep your good attitude about submitting in the first place.--Dave Surratt